


Should All The Stars Shine In The Sky

by likethenight



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Cultural Differences, F/F, Families of Choice, Family Fluff, Fluff, Found Family, Gen, Holidays, M/M, Winter, Winter Solstice, midwinter celebrations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:47:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27798727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/likethenight/pseuds/likethenight
Summary: It is the first Midwinter celebration in Dale, after the Battle of the Five Armies. Bard and Thranduil are in the thick of the festivities, and Sigrid and Tauriel are stargazing on a rooftop; there are all kinds of magic abroad on this, the longest night of the year.
Relationships: Bard the Bowman & Bard's Children, Bard the Bowman/Thranduil, Sigrid/Tauriel (Hobbit Movies)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 20
Collections: Have A Happy Hobbit Holiday 2020





	Should All The Stars Shine In The Sky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SatiricalDraperies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SatiricalDraperies/gifts).



> Dear recipient, I hope you like this! I've tried to include as many things as possible from your request, and I hope it works!
> 
> Title is taken from the song _Some Candy Talking_ by the Jesus and Mary Chain (the full lyric is _should all the stars shine in the sky, they couldn't outshine your sparkling eyes_ ).

Sigrid and Tauriel lie side by side on their backs on a rooftop high above Dale, looking at the stars; Tauriel has been scouting the state of the buildings and she says it’s quite safe, though Sigrid thinks her Da would have fifty fits if he knew she was up here. But she is quite content to lie here, bundled up in a blanket over her coat and shawl, listening to Tauriel’s soft voice telling her the stories of the stars; she almost thinks she hears their unearthly music chiming softly behind her friend’s voice. Their hands lie next to each other on the cold tiles, Sigrid’s left and Tauriel’s right, and after a while they seem to find each other of their own accord, fingers twining together. Sigrid smiles up into the night, and when she turns her head she sees that Tauriel is smiling too, wistful and lovely in the moonlight. Their eyes meet and before Sigrid quite realises what is happening their lips brush in a kiss at first tentative but then soft, chaste and so right. And when they draw apart Sigrid thinks, _I won’t be too young for ever_ , and, _we have all the time in the world_. Tauriel mirrors her wondering smile, and then they go back to watching the stars, fingers laced tightly together.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
In the streets below, the celebrations are in full swing; the square in front of the great hall has been set up with a variety of ramshackle stalls constructed from the scrap wood that was lying around in the ruins, and whatever could be salvaged from Lake-town. Benches and tables have been set up, ale and warm spiced wine are flowing freely, and various musicians have struck up a merry tune; some people are dancing, including one or two of the Dwarves who have come from Erebor for the festivities. Bard stands at the top of the steps, Thranduil at his side, and he cannot help a smile at the sight of the festivities, everyone having such a marvellous time. He could never have imagined this, two months ago, in the aftermath of the dragon and the battle. 

Bard takes a sip of his hot, spiced wine and glances at Thranduil; the Elvenking has a goblet of decidedly cool and unspiced wine, for he does not allow anything to sully his chosen vintage. Bard rather likes that about him. There is the barest hint of a smile playing about the corners of Thranduil’s mouth, and Bard wants very desperately to kiss it, although he knows he can’t, not here, not in front of everyone, no matter that they’re all half-drunk and busy with their celebrations and paying absolutely no attention. 

“I have had word from Elrond of Imladris,” says Thranduil after a moment, and Bard frowns, confused, he’s heard of Elrond, of course, but he has no idea of why he’d be writing to Thranduil, nor of why Thranduil would think it was something he would need to tell Bard about. The ways of the Elves are no less of a mystery to him now than they were before. 

Thranduil takes a sip of his wine, and does not continue right away; Bard isn’t sure if he’s waiting for a response, or a prompt, so he tries one.

“What did he say?” he asks, and Thranduil lifts one eyebrow almost imperceptibly, the smile at the corner of his mouth becoming a little more pronounced. 

“I had asked him to look into the genealogy of the Lords of Dale,” says Thranduil. “There are certain things about you which intrigued me, and I wished to ascertain whether my suspicions might be correct.”

“About me?” says Bard, incredulous, he has no idea what Thranduil could be talking about. 

“Indeed,” says Thranduil. “Your bearing, for one, the structure of your face, the shape of your ear. The fact that you barely have a single grey hair, though I know you have seen forty summers or more and most of your kind are turning silver by then.”

Bard frowns again, he is completely confused. “We’ve always been slow to go grey, in my family,” he says. “And what’s wrong with my ears?”

Thranduil chuckles softly, a warm sound of amusement deep in his throat. “There is nothing wrong with them. I simply noticed that they are somewhat more pointed than those of the rest of your kind. My curiosity was piqued, and so I wrote to Elrond, whose library is second to none, even compared to mine.”

“And what did he say?” asks Bard, though he is somewhat afraid of the answer. 

“He said that he had heard of one or two wanderers of our people who may have travelled in these parts over the last hundred years or two, and that, although he had no definite information, he believes it is possible that one or other of them may have played a part in the history of your family, as it were.” Thranduil’s eyebrow is arched, his smile amused, and Bard gapes at him.

“Are you saying - are you telling me I’ve Elven blood?”

“That is precisely what I am saying,” says Thranduil, calmly, as if he hasn’t just delivered news that has shaken Bard’s knowledge of himself to the core.

“Then I - I might - but my da wasn’t all that long-lived, or his da either. Or his da, because I never knew him, or anyone else further back.”

“There are many possibilities,” says Thranduil. “I am sure Elrond could elucidate, given that he himself has mortal blood.”

“Bloody hell,” says Bard, with feeling. 

“Indeed,” murmurs Thranduil, and his hand makes its way up Bard’s back, out of sight of the crowd; Bard leans into his touch, suddenly in need of the support.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
“Do you know,” says Tauriel softly, after a while, “the reason we Elves love the starlight so?”

“No,” says Sigrid. “Will you tell me?” She is hungry for any scrap of information about her new friends, both Elven and Dwarven, to augment the tales she heard in Lake-town, based more on hearsay than fact, and Tauriel loves to tell her stories of her people, of her own life. 

“Of course,” says Tauriel. “When the first of our people awoke, by the waters of Cuiviénen, there was no Sun, no Moon, to cast light upon them, only the light of the stars. So when they first opened their eyes, it was the stars that they saw.”

“Like this,” whispers Sigrid, looking up into the night sky. “To think, we are looking upon those same stars now.”

Tauriel curls her fingers a little tighter around Sigrid’s. “To think that we are. There are so many wonders in this world, are there not?”

“More than I can count,” breathes Sigrid, and Tauriel smiles. Perhaps it is foolishness, to love a mortal not once but twice, and she will never forget Kíli, the impression he left upon her heart will never fade; but Sigrid is so bright and quick and brave, so kind and compassionate, and Tauriel cannot quite help her fascination. Sigrid is young yet, but Tauriel’s heart is still mending, and after all, she has all the time in the world to wait.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
The slightly unsettled silence between Bard and Thranduil is broken by Bain and Tilda, who come pelting up the steps towards them, mouths sticky with sugar from the peppermint candies the stallholders are giving out, down in the square. Even in this most difficult of winters, somehow peppermint oil and sugar have been found, candies and cakes have been made, garlands of evergreen have been strung here and there among the ruined stonework. 

“Da, Da!” squeals Tilda. “The Winter Man is here! He’s really here! I didn’t think he’d find his way, but he’s here!” She grabs Bard’s hand and tugs on it, and Bard smiles down at her, pleased beyond words to see her enjoying herself. They’ve been through so much these past few months, but they’re resilient little souls and somehow they’re still smiling. 

Bain has hold of Tilda’s other hand, to keep her from getting lost in the crowd, and he gives Bard a look that says he knows full well that the Winter Man is Percy wearing a scraped-together suit of red and green and a beard made of sheep’s wool, but that he won’t destroy Tilda’s illusions. 

“Who is this Winter Man?” asks Thranduil, sounding at once interested - for Tilda’s benefit - and entirely dispassionate - for the benefit of whoever else might be listening.

“Oh, he’s _wonderful_ ,” says Tilda. “He visits at Midwinter and he brings presents and he sings songs and we give him a bit of cake and a mug of hot wine, and everyone gets a present!”

“All the children get a present,” Bard amends in an undertone. “And then when they’ve all gone to bed, all the grown-ups have a drink or several.”

“And where does the Winter Man come from?” asks Thranduil, sounding a little more interested this time, a little less as though he is humouring Bard’s little girl. 

“Allllll the way up in the far North!” Tilda giggles. “He comes on a sledge pulled by big dogs and if there isn’t any snow he just flies! I didn’t think he’d know where to find us, because he’d think we’re in Lake-town, but I suppose he must have heard about what happened, because he’s here. Can we go and see him, Da, can we?” She tugs on Bard’s hand again, and he laughs and relents, letting her pull him down the stairs. He glances back once, halfway down the steps, and half to his surprise he sees that Thranduil is following, an intrigued-looking smile on his beautiful face.

Tilda pulls him through the crowd to the edge of the square, where Percy has set himself up on a reasonable mock-up of a sledge, given what they had to work with this year; the usual sledge is at the bottom of the Long Lake by now, or burned to ashes, or both.

“Where are the dogs?” asks Thranduil, not unreasonably, and Tilda blinks, but her young mind comes up with an answer almost immediately, her fertile imagination glossing over the gaps in the story. 

“I should think they’re getting their dinner,” she says brightly. “We always make sure to put some meat out for them because it must be hungry work flying all the way down from the North to see us.”

“I see,” says Thranduil, and he glances at the Winter Man; not a flicker of recognition appears upon his face, and Bard is not sure whether he truly does not realise that it is Percy, or if he is genuinely that good at acting. “Well, I think that perhaps you should greet the Winter Man and thank him for visiting, pen-neth, especially since you and your friends are not where he would usually have found you.”

Tilda giggles and bounces on her toes, and then she is off to join the throng of children surrounding the Winter Man upon his sleigh; there are fewer of them this year, and Bard’s heart hurts every time he looks at them, but those remaining are turning bright faces up to Percy in his disguise, and he thinks to himself that they have done a good thing, here, in keeping the old Lake-town tradition on the darkest night of winter. They did it for the children, but even the most cursory of glances around at the faces of the crowd tells him that it is doing the grown-ups good as well. 

Once Tilda is out of earshot, Bain can contain himself no longer, it seems. “It isn’t really the Winter Man,” he says, although he manages to keep his voice to an undertone, and it is not as filled with scorn as it might have been. “It’s Percy in a coat and a beard.”

Thranduil tilts his head in that way that he has, that reminds Bard that he is absolutely, utterly not human, the movement smooth and uncanny and very definitely unnerving. 

“Or would you perhaps say that it is not Percy but the Winter Man, _because_ he is wearing the coat and the beard?” he asks, and Bain furrows his brow, trying to work his way through that one.

“Good question,” says Bard quietly. “Percy’s always done the job, for as long as I can remember, even when I was a lad and he’s not that much older than me, only ten years or so, fifteen at the outside. And I could have sworn, when I was nine or ten, standing at his knee, it wasn’t Percy I was looking at, not at all.”

“There is magic abroad at this time of the year,” says Thranduil very gravely, and Bard can tell he is being utterly serious. “Who knows what forms it may take, in the eyes of those who believe?”

“Who knows?” Bard echoes, as Percy strikes up one of the Winter Man’s traditional songs, a simple little ditty about the snow and the evergreens and candlelight in the darkness. “Do your people mark Midwinter?”

“The turning of the years means less to us than it does to you,” said Thranduil, “for we see so many, but in the darkness and the cold we spend time in my halls, we light fires and lamps and candles, we look at the stars; we remind ourselves that light and warmth will come again to the world.” He smiles, a secret smile, meant just for Bard. “I have not heeded the message for many centuries, but this year I find I cannot ignore it.” He has shifted closer, and now, unseen in the crowd, his hand finds Bard’s, his long, elegant fingers interlacing with Bard’s thick, work-roughened ones. “This year, I find I feel it most deeply,” he murmurs, and when Bard looks up at him he finds that he cannot look away; he is entirely caught by the depth of feeling in Thranduil’s clear, pale blue eyes. 

They are both of them taller than everyone else in the square, Bard only by an inch or two and Thranduil by a good half a foot or so, but nobody is looking at them, and Bard feels he can risk brushing the lightest, most fleeting of kisses across Thranduil’s perfect mouth. Thranduil smiles against his lips and kisses him back, not quite so fleetingly, and then he eases back, just enough to be able to speak. 

“You said that your father and grandfathers did not live to any great age,” he says softly. “If I might ask, did your mother or your grandmothers live longer than expected?”

Bard shakes his head, but then thinks about it. “Now you come to mention it, there was a family story about one of my great-grandmas, on my mam’s side,” he says, the memory coming back to him as he speaks. “I was always told she never got older than thirty or so, and eventually she just - disappeared. Went off to wander the world, so I was told. But I always assumed it was just one of those stories you tell children to get them to go to sleep at night.” He frowns, thinking back. “Come to think of it, there was something about her grand-da being a fairy prince, and that was why she got restless. But I never believed it.” 

Thranduil arches an eyebrow. “I think perhaps you should reconsider, meleth-nín,” he says. 

Bard blinks. “Now I think of it, my grandma died in a hunting accident when she was still young, I never knew her,” he says. “Some silly bastard wasn’t looking where he was shooting his arrows. And my mam worked in the tavern in Lake-town, behind the bar, and she got between two idiots who were determined to beat each other black and blue, and one of them stuck a knife through her ribs. He swore up and down it was an accident, but still, she never got the chance to grow old, or _not_ to grow old, and nor did her mam.” He closes his eyes for a moment, and shivers, despite the fact that he is actually quite warm, here in the middle of the crowd. “I don’t need to ask you if your people can die,” he says after a minute or two. “I’ve seen it for myself.”

“Only by a mortal wound, or the long fading of grief,” says Thranduil gravely. “And those with Elven blood, though it may be some generations diluted, have the gift of immortality also, although living among Men it may be less of a gift than a curse.”

“Maybe that’s why my great-grandma left Lake-town,” said Bard. “Too many people asking questions about why she wasn’t getting any older.”

Thranduil nods, and there is a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Perhaps you may find yourself and your children living longer lives than you expected, meleth-nín,” he says, and the implication finally dawns on Bard, like a wave breaking over him.

“We might not have to leave you,” he says wonderingly, and he can’t help himself, he brings one hand up to draw a finger down the right-hand side of Thranduil’s face, away from the hidden injury he has not seen, but whose presence he knows causes his beloved untold pain.

“That is what I hope,” says Thranduil, and then he kisses Bard again, softer this time, deeper, and his hands thread into Bard’s hair and Bard cups the back of Thranduil’s head in his hand and kisses him back for all he’s worth, wondering all the while what he ever did to deserve this stunning good fortune, this beautiful, uncanny creature who says that he loves him.

And then Percy’s songs come to an end and some last shred of self-preservation makes Bard pull back a little, just before everyone’s attention turns their way.

“Three cheers for the Winter Man!” he cries, easing away from Thranduil and scrabbling for his composure and for the ritual words; he’s spoken them every winter for the last ten years or so, ever since his da died. The Master never bothered with the rituals of the people, he was too busy closeting himself away in his big house, drinking his brandy and hoarding his gold.

The cheers go up, and Bard realises that Thranduil still has hold of his hand; it makes him smile, to be sharing this most important of customs with the one who has become most important to him, these last few months, alongside his children. 

“Winter Man, we thank you for visiting,” he says, loud enough for the whole square to hear, “and we offer you, if we may, a mug of hot wine and some cake, for we haven’t much else to give.”

“Gladly I accept,” says Percy, though Bard thinks there seems to be another voice overlaying Percy’s, some strange trick of the space, some echo or other. “Wine and cake be all I need. Good health to you all, good health!”

Someone brings forward the mug of wine and the piece of cake and hands them over, and then the crowd begins to disperse, parents hustling their children home to bed before they come back to take part in the grown-up part of the celebration. Bard is about to make his excuses to Thranduil and take Tilda back to the little house they’ve been living in, but Bain grins up at him. 

“I’ve got her, Da,” he says. “You go and show the King how we Lake-towners celebrate the Midwinter festival.” And he retrieves Tilda from the throng of children, presents her to Bard and Thranduil long enough for them each to give her a goodnight kiss and wish her sweet dreams, and then they are gone, slipping off between the crowds. And for the first time in some time, Bard thinks to wonder where Sigrid has got to, for normally she would never dream of missing the Winter Man, though she is too old by now to stand at his knee and receive a present. He glances around the square and does not see her, and Tauriel is nowhere to be seen either, but then Hilda is swirling past him, half-dancing and half-handing out mugs of hot wine, and she presses a mug into his hand and another into Thranduil’s, and then she is gone again, vanished into the crowd. 

He clinks his mug against Thranduil’s and takes a drink, keeping his eyes on his beloved’s face as he sniffs the contents of his mug, turns his nose up at what has been done to what was presumably a perfectly serviceable vintage, but takes a sip anyway out of politeness, or perhaps a wish to humour Bard by joining in with his customs.

“Everyone’s going to get drunker and drunker from here on in,” he says to Thranduil, under cover of the increasing noise; someone has found an accordion from somewhere and has struck up a merry tune and there are many voices raised in song, some shouting more than singing. 

“Perhaps we may be able to slip away unnoticed, before too long,” says Thranduil, mischief in his eyes, and Bard can’t help but grin. 

“Maybe we should,” he says. “In a little while. I want to enjoy the fun first. And the wine.” He takes another drink, and then laughs at the look of horror upon Thranduil’s face. All in all, he thinks, he can’t quite remember the last time he had such an enjoyable evening.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Sigrid hears the cheering in the square below, and realises that she has been so distracted that she has missed the Winter Man ceremony, the first time in all her life that she has not been in the crowd to see Percy do his act, hear his songs and the traditional back and forth between Percy and her Da. But somehow, with Tauriel’s fingers laced between hers, she cannot quite bring herself to care. 

She does not quite know what it is between them, not yet, what it is that makes her heart beat faster and her skin shiver whenever Tauriel is near, but she is beginning to get an idea of it, and though she knows she is young yet, she is in no hurry. This is not something to spoil by rushing it, and she is more than happy to let it develop at its own pace, step by tiny step, and to find out gradually what it is that they will come to mean to each other. For now it is enough to lie side by side upon this roof, hand in hand, and watch the stars, and perhaps occasionally to turn their heads to look at each other, to read the wonder in each other’s gaze, and perhaps to steal a chaste, fleeting kiss or two. It is Midwinter, after all, and they are here under the same stars that the first Elves saw when they awoke, and there has to be some kind of magic in that. Later they will go and join their family - for Tauriel is in the process of mending her relationship with Thranduil, and Sigrid and her siblings are, in turn, in the process of adopting the pair of them - but for now…for now this is the most magical Midwinter Sigrid has ever known, and she does not want to break the spell. 

She suspects that her Da is probably feeling the same way, down in the square. Their lives have been turned upside down in the last few months, and she never would have guessed, this time last year, that it would be the last Midwinter she would spend in cold, damp Lake-town, and that by the next she would be more or less a princess in the ruined city in the hills she’d only ever heard about in stories. Even less could she have guessed that her life would have been saved and her heart stolen by an Elf of the Woodland Realm, nor that her Da would have finally found someone to love again, and that that someone would be the Elvenking himself - and yet here they are, and all of those things have come to pass. Some days Sigrid thinks she ought to pinch herself to make sure she isn’t dreaming, but she can’t quite make herself do it, because she knows she wouldn’t be able to bear it if she woke up.

Besides, if this is a dream, it is the best kind, filled with magic, and she rather wants to sleep for ever. She could stay up here for ever, watching the stars with Tauriel - but a shiver runs through her, the cold finally making it through all the layers she’s bundled herself up in, and Tauriel glances over at her with a frown on her lovely face.

“You’re cold,” she says softly, and Sigrid thinks about denying it, but then tells herself that actually, she _is_ cold, and there’s no reason they can’t come up here again another night and watch the stars again then.

She nods, and Tauriel rolls gracefully to her feet, reaching down to pull Sigrid up.

“Come then,” she says. “Let us go and join the celebrations. You must stand by the fire, and I will fetch you a mug of hot wine.”

“All right,” says Sigrid, but she draws Tauriel to her for a hug, first, closing her eyes for a moment and just enjoying the sensation of Tauriel’s strong arms around her. And then they make their way carefully off the roof, down to ground level, and make for the main square and the fire and all the people who have known Sigrid since she was born, all of those who love her best.  
  
  


* * *

  
  
Bard and Thranduil stand together in the middle of the crowd for a while, drinking their wine and watching the celebrations going on around them. Everyone is beginning to get a little rowdier, now the children have gone to bed, and Bard thinks it’s probably good for them all to let off a bit of steam. 

Looking around, he spies Sigrid standing by the big fire in the centre of the square, her hands tucked into her sleeves and her shoulders hunched against the cold; where has she been, he wonders, to have got herself chilled through? 

And then Tauriel appears, gliding through the crowd as though nobody is standing between her and Sigrid, two mugs of hot wine in her hands, and as she reaches Sigrid and hands one of the mugs to her their eyes meet and they smile at each other in a way that makes Bard raise his eyebrows, and then realise that his eldest girl isn’t really a girl at all any more. 

“What are you looking at, meleth-nín?” Thranduil murmurs in his ear, and he nods in their direction, though he doesn’t say anything; in truth he isn’t sure quite what he thinks.

Thranduil looks for a long moment, and then he turns back to Bard. “It appears that you are not the only member of your family who has given one of my people reason to smile again,” he says softly. “Tauriel has seen much sorrow in a short time, and Sigrid, too, has lost a great deal. They will be good for each other.”

“I hope so,” says Bard. “Sigrid’s only sixteen.”

“And Tauriel knows better than to take advantage of her,” says Thranduil, still softly but firmly. “Do not worry. They will help each other’s hearts to heal, as you and I are doing. And perhaps neither Tauriel nor I will have to say goodbye to you, after all.”

Bard smiles. “I’d like that,” he says, and he tilts his head up to kiss Thranduil, very softly. “I’d like that very much.”

And by the fire, unseen by Sigrid’s father or by Tauriel’s King, Sigrid and Tauriel rest their foreheads together and exchange a brief, warm kiss, sweet with wine and spices. Even after everything, Midwinter is still magical, and Sigrid thinks that for the first time in her life, she is truly excited to find out what the future might hold for her.

**Author's Note:**

> pen-neth - little one  
> meleth-nín - my love
> 
> Just as an aside, I was entertained to discover while writing this fic that Daeron the Bard from Menegroth is said to have escaped when Doriath was destroyed and may still wander in the far East of Middle-Earth. I'm not saying he's Bard's great-great-great-grand-da, here, but...given the name, and all, I'm also not saying he's not. :D


End file.
